pinched her cheeks, licked her lips and headed for the door.
In the great hall she found a half dozen men sitting at long tables. Some nodded as they stood. When Rachael entered, Beth hurried over to her.
“Where is Duncan?” Hoping to ease the pounding in her head, she reached for an untouched loaf of dark bread on the table. She broke off a piece and found it dry and gritty. Hoping to soften it enough to swallow, she peeked into a nearby pitcher and sniffed. Ale. Yuk!
“The MacDougall ‘tis with my husband, tres honoree dame. ”
“Where?”
“In yon bailey.” Rachael waved toward the east facing windows.
Beth smiled. She’d not had to repeat her words to be understood. Keep it short and sweet, Beth, and you might just survive until you can find your way out of this nightmare.
“May I have some water, please?”
“Of course, madame .” Rachael scanned the room and muttered, “Zee lazy lass. ‘Twill be brought to yer solar forthwith.”
“Thank you, but I’ll just have a glass here.”
Rachael frowned at her for a moment, shrugged, then turned away.
Beth nibbled on her bread and studied her fellow diners and the room’s decor. Most of the men, huddled in groups, and the women, shuffling past with arms full of ale tankards, were fair and blue eyed. They ranged in age but not one--save the priest-- carried any spare fat, which she found surprising, given the volume of food they were consuming. After watching several men pitch bones to the floor, she cautiously peeked under her chair and immediately raised her feet.
An enterprising student could have re-created a dinosaur from the waste in the rushes. No wonder the room smelled rank. And all this time she’d been blaming the occupants’ lack of deodorant.
The bread continued to roll like pebbles in Beth’s mouth and she looked about for Rachael. Wondering what could be keeping her, Beth noticed a beautiful familiar looking woman studying her from a shadowed corner of the hall. Beth smiled tentatively. The woman rose. As she approached, Beth realized why the woman looked so familiar. The woman’s flawless skin, chocolate doe eyes, and mahogany hair made her the spitting image of Winona Ryder. Oh, lordy, just what I need. Another naturally beautiful woman in my life.
“ Bon jour, tres honoree dame. ” The lovely woman curtsied. “ Je m’appelle Flora Campbell. ”
“Good morning.” Beth’s smile faltered. “I’m afraid I don’t speak French.”
“Nay? But ‘tis the tongue of all gentils hommes . Ye must speak.”
“No. I’m sorry.”
Her confusion evident, Miss I’m Too Lovely for My Clothes tried again. “I be Flora Campbell. I bid ye welcome.” To Beth, the woman didn’t look so much welcoming--weelcooming, as she pronounced it--as curious.
“Thank you.” Beth waved toward the empty place next to her. “Please sit.” As Flora made herself comfortable Beth assessed the lady with an expert eye. Yup, the woman’s full lips, kangaroo-long lashes, and flawless skin with its dusting of rose at the cheeks were all products of Mother Nature. Even her choice of a magenta gown was perfect. It enhanced her coloring and accentuated her perfect figure. Beth took a deep breath and swallowed her envy. Unfortunately, swallowing it couldn’t keep her from feeling like a warthog under the woman’s scrutiny.
“Ye spake oddly,” Flora told her. “Where from cometh ye?”
“America.” When her companion’s brow furrowed, Beth added, “From across the sea, far away.”
“Ah, and your dower?”
“Dower?”
“Ye hostile and lands.”
Ah, she means dowery. Why else would a handsome man like Duncan MacDougall choose someone like her, huh? “I have a castle on an isle.”
“‘Tis as grand?” Flora’s wave encompassed the room.
“Absolutely identical.”
Apparently not pleased, Flora cast a critical eye over Beth’s costume. “If thou art well-dowered, why doth ye wear the gowns of the laird’s third wife?”
Did
In the great hall she found a half dozen men sitting at long tables. Some nodded as they stood. When Rachael entered, Beth hurried over to her.
“Where is Duncan?” Hoping to ease the pounding in her head, she reached for an untouched loaf of dark bread on the table. She broke off a piece and found it dry and gritty. Hoping to soften it enough to swallow, she peeked into a nearby pitcher and sniffed. Ale. Yuk!
“The MacDougall ‘tis with my husband, tres honoree dame. ”
“Where?”
“In yon bailey.” Rachael waved toward the east facing windows.
Beth smiled. She’d not had to repeat her words to be understood. Keep it short and sweet, Beth, and you might just survive until you can find your way out of this nightmare.
“May I have some water, please?”
“Of course, madame .” Rachael scanned the room and muttered, “Zee lazy lass. ‘Twill be brought to yer solar forthwith.”
“Thank you, but I’ll just have a glass here.”
Rachael frowned at her for a moment, shrugged, then turned away.
Beth nibbled on her bread and studied her fellow diners and the room’s decor. Most of the men, huddled in groups, and the women, shuffling past with arms full of ale tankards, were fair and blue eyed. They ranged in age but not one--save the priest-- carried any spare fat, which she found surprising, given the volume of food they were consuming. After watching several men pitch bones to the floor, she cautiously peeked under her chair and immediately raised her feet.
An enterprising student could have re-created a dinosaur from the waste in the rushes. No wonder the room smelled rank. And all this time she’d been blaming the occupants’ lack of deodorant.
The bread continued to roll like pebbles in Beth’s mouth and she looked about for Rachael. Wondering what could be keeping her, Beth noticed a beautiful familiar looking woman studying her from a shadowed corner of the hall. Beth smiled tentatively. The woman rose. As she approached, Beth realized why the woman looked so familiar. The woman’s flawless skin, chocolate doe eyes, and mahogany hair made her the spitting image of Winona Ryder. Oh, lordy, just what I need. Another naturally beautiful woman in my life.
“ Bon jour, tres honoree dame. ” The lovely woman curtsied. “ Je m’appelle Flora Campbell. ”
“Good morning.” Beth’s smile faltered. “I’m afraid I don’t speak French.”
“Nay? But ‘tis the tongue of all gentils hommes . Ye must speak.”
“No. I’m sorry.”
Her confusion evident, Miss I’m Too Lovely for My Clothes tried again. “I be Flora Campbell. I bid ye welcome.” To Beth, the woman didn’t look so much welcoming--weelcooming, as she pronounced it--as curious.
“Thank you.” Beth waved toward the empty place next to her. “Please sit.” As Flora made herself comfortable Beth assessed the lady with an expert eye. Yup, the woman’s full lips, kangaroo-long lashes, and flawless skin with its dusting of rose at the cheeks were all products of Mother Nature. Even her choice of a magenta gown was perfect. It enhanced her coloring and accentuated her perfect figure. Beth took a deep breath and swallowed her envy. Unfortunately, swallowing it couldn’t keep her from feeling like a warthog under the woman’s scrutiny.
“Ye spake oddly,” Flora told her. “Where from cometh ye?”
“America.” When her companion’s brow furrowed, Beth added, “From across the sea, far away.”
“Ah, and your dower?”
“Dower?”
“Ye hostile and lands.”
Ah, she means dowery. Why else would a handsome man like Duncan MacDougall choose someone like her, huh? “I have a castle on an isle.”
“‘Tis as grand?” Flora’s wave encompassed the room.
“Absolutely identical.”
Apparently not pleased, Flora cast a critical eye over Beth’s costume. “If thou art well-dowered, why doth ye wear the gowns of the laird’s third wife?”
Did
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